


An Augmented Dagger in the Mind's Eye is How Gods Destroy

by fresne



Series: Voyages of the Bakerstreet [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Hand Jobs, Memory control, Mental Conditions, Mind Control, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-13 21:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: When the Bakerstreet is assigned to deliver supplies to Elba II, John realizes its time to face his sister, who is incarcerated there.But all is not as it seems.





	1. Other POV

**Author's Note:**

> Back from camping (and board gaming amid the redwoods) where it turns out writing a massive Trek fic is great for recognizing the images on the cards for "Five Year Mission" a cooperative Trek board game.
> 
> I was Bones BTW.

Robert, "But please call me, Bob," Frankland got the tour of Tantalus asylum's facilities from the outgoing asylum director, Jacqui Stapleton.

She said, "This level is one floor above where the inmates,"

"Guests," corrected Frankland, who liked to emphasize that simply because fissures in mind and soul had led to violent crimes, that did not mean there was not a path out of the valley mental disruption. That all so afflicted were merely guests of that valley.

Jacqui's body language betrayed that she felt he was being condescending, which was unfortunate, because that had not been his intention. "There are some very troubled individuals at this facility. While some of them will be able to be released to Baskerville penal colony to serve out their term, others,"

He held up a hand to gently stop her. "I have read the packets on every guest at this facility." He looked around brightly. From what he'd seen so far, Tantalus was a bit dated – and terribly named – but well designed to affect a healing ambiance. He said, "I was very excited to be offered the opportunity to direct the treatment at a facility designed by Doctor Tristan Adams." Bob was always happy to introduce one of the greats in their field in a conversation with a peer.

Jacqui gave a hollow laugh. "Some of the inmates think he haunts the place. He died here not long after the facility went into use."

"Really," said Bob, who looked around with fresh appreciation. While he'd read every paper Adams had ever written, every statistical analysis showing the appreciable value of Adams' theories, and quite considered himself an Adamsite, he hadn't delved too much into the details of the man's life. He'd made that mistake early on and learned to his disappointment that heroes often had feet of clay. Humane treatment was what mattered in the healing of battered souls.

Jacqui pointed at a rather cheery mural of a droll black hound dog with a lolling red tongue and sparkling blue eyes on a green field with white sheep grazing in the distance. "Some of the inmates refer to him the Hound. If you end up going over to Baskerville, and you will if there's a disturbance, take the time talk to old Finney. He's been here since the place was built and knows every story."

"He'd have to be," Bob attempted to do the math and came up with very old, "over a hundred. I'm surprised that Barrymore would want a guard that elderly."

From what he'd seen of Warden Barrymore, the man had a tritanium rod inserted very far up his abdominal cavity. He'd be surprised if the man did anything that deviated from regulation.

She gave him a droll look. "Try inmate. Sorry, long term guest. As I understand Finney was due to be released half a century ago, but his daughter had died, grandchildren were getting on themselves and didn't know him. He stayed in the only place he knows. Not that uncommon truth be told. But there's nothing he doesn't know about both Baskerville and Tantalus." She shrugged. "A bit before my time, but he was a... guest back when Adams ran Tantalus. But it's time for the pièce de résistance, your new office." She turned a corner into what he could only describe as a closet with a desk jammed into it.

He looked at it in dismay. He tried to keep a positive attitude, but this was a bit much. "This can't be your office." He tried to imagine speaking with a patient in this gray room and simply failed. Utterly failed.

"It began life as a closet, but um…" Jacqui flushed, "this may sound a bit daft from a mental health professional, but the director's office always gave me a bit of a chill, and I might add every director before me."

Bob held up his hands as if to allow judgement to flow through his fingers. "I always say that those who are attracted to the mental health profession do so out of a desire to first heal themselves." He tapped his own chest. "Or at least that's the way it was with me." Not really the time for details on his various Jungian dreams and Freudianly fraught relationships. "Perhaps we should go see this office on the off chance that I don't get... the chills?"

Jacqui blew out a breath and took him to a simply delightful room. Utterly delightful. A floor to ceiling monitor gave the illusion that he was above ground and looking down at the Baskerville penal colony with its rows of neat little fields beneath the sky blue dome that kept out the oxygen poor atmosphere of the planet proper. There was an entirely comfortable couch and sets of plump chairs. A proper desk to work on and quite frankly let his gaze drift over the wide monitors. The room was lit by a cheekily smiling sunlamp that could be set to white, red, yellow, or blue depending on the disposition of the occupant.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

Jacqui said, "I don't think it's been used since Doctor Adams died.

"Even if he died in this very room, I think I would prefer it to the closet," said Bob dryly.

"You think that now," said Jacqui. "But no, I'll let you get a feel for the room. He didn't die in this room though. He died down in the neural neutralizer room."

"You have a working neural neutralizer?" That hadn't been part of the asset manifest. Admittedly, the neural neutralizer had been one of Adam's more outré theories with all sorts of legal and ethical considerations.

At its basis, the neural neutralizer associated negative impulses with memories of unpleasant sense memories. While positive impulses were given positive sensory associations. In lives so empty of positive associations, these could be added. The scent of warm bread. A parental hug in a life where no hugs had ever been provided and the like. Using technology to gently thwart the dagger of the mind's eye as it were.

As if to round out his musings on the subject, Jacqui said quietly, "It's routed into all the central processes of the facility. Theoretically, there's only one room where there are emitters, but I swear sometimes… never mind. The only way to get rid of it would be to destroy the place." She muttered half under her breath. "An idea that I still think has merit."

As she was departing after a rather short tenure in her position, siting a desire to be closer to her daughter, and he was incoming, he elected not to hear the statement. Instead, he shared a glass of very fine brandy in her closet of an office, sent her off with well wishes, and went for a more thorough examination of the neural inhibitor. He examined the interfaces. It appeared to be a simple enough device. The electrical systems, surprisingly, still worked even after all those years. He powered it up and resolved to examine its use. Perhaps even see about having the device recertified for use during the asylum's next safety certification.

Full of plans, he took possession of his excellent office after a thorough cleaning.

As he'd grown up on a Bellatrix VIII, and sometimes missed the brilliant blue glow of Bellatrix's light, he set the sunlamp to Blue giant, and set to reviewing the case file of his first patient, Harry Watson. A fascinating and tragic case.

He felt confident and assured in his mission in life. That he could bring healing to these poor souls. Perhaps some sense of closure.

Even the distant sound of machinery, which did sound a bit like a hound dog's belling cry, filled him with comfort.

Above him, the sun lamp pulsed and gleamed, and he felt as if he had met Tristan Adams. As if he possessed warm and happy memories of meeting him. Perhaps as a young child.

It was so comforting a thought, and it had been so long a day, that he fell asleep in his comfortable chair as one might fall asleep in a hammock swinging below a tree house constructed by ones grandfather.

The memories of that particular morose and critical gentleman faded away in warm, pulsing, blue light to be replaced with those of a far more agreeable person.


	2. John POV

John thought naming an asylum for the criminally insane Tantalus was asking for trouble, or possibly indicated someone didn't know their Greek mythology when they named it, but Harry was getting treatment and that was what mattered.

Harry, who hadn't felt like his sibling for over a decade.

Harry, who used to eat his mushy peas for him, because he didn't like the texture.

Harry, who'd been at his shoulder throwing punches any time Normal Human kids tried to give them shite.

Harry, who on one of John's breaks from school had tearfully begged their parents to be allowed to transition to an alpha. That she felt like an alien in her own body. That she'd never wanted a gold gender ring. She wanted a silver ring. Before John could say anything, the conversation became yet another argument about whether or not John should stay at that medieval Catholic school. The only period in his life, he'd ever seen his parents argue.

Harry, who'd flung her gender ring at John before she stalked off.

Harry, who despite years of biting remarks asked him to be her man of honor at her wedding.

Harry, who the last time he'd seen her had murdered their father while trying to murder Sh'Alaack.

Harry. His twin, who he'd seen was spiraling, but hadn't understood why. Had been so wrapped up in his own life that he hadn't stopped her decent.

Harry.

There was a lot of guilt tied up with that name. That person. Those memories.

Swirling thoughts broken up by Sherlock saying, "I cannot accompany you to the planet. Something came up on the ship. Are you sure that is not a problem?" If he was repeating himself, John must look as nervous as he felt.

"No, it's fine. If we could beam directly into the dome, it would be one thing, but since they require visitors to shuttle in, it doesn't make sense." A short ride made an enternity because he'd be sharing it with Sh'Alaack. There had been some harsh words exchanged at the last Bad Band practice when he'd brought up that he was going to visit his sister. "There are a lot of situations where I want you next to me, but this isn't one of them." John tried to figure out how to explain and settled on. "Family pushes your buttons."

"I've seen you with your mother," said Sherlock sharply, looking offended even though he was the one who said he wouldn't be going with John. "You're wonderful with Elise."

John was under the impression he acted like he was an overly emotional kid when he was around his mother, but John was also aware that Sherlock was an excellent distraction to lob at his mother, who adored Sherlock, who adored her in return. Which since that was a view John shared, it was all fine.

"Yeah, well, Harry will be different. It's better to see her on my own." John hadn't seen Harry since what happened had happened.

Mum had changed the route the troop took, which allowed her to visit Elba II time to time. When John had last seen Mum when their paths crossed on DS9, she'd said Harry seemed to be responding well to treatment at the Tantalus Asylum for the Criminally Insane. She even seemed to be buying into Harry's delusion that she might get out at some point now that Doctor Frankland was giving her neural neutralizer treatments.

He'd heard a bit about Doctor Frankland. Made a name for himself in the medical profession in the last year and a half with some pretty amazing claims about being able to rewire violent impulses. John had done his research. He might not visit Harry, but he did care. The tech was based on some older research from a hundred years back, but the theory was solid. Gently redirecting neural impulses down new pathways with positive association. Sense memory kind of stuff.

But if Harry was released, she would be going to the Baskerville penal colony on Elba II to finish out her sentence, not free to go where she wanted.

His mum had been on him for some time to visit Harry. He'd always made his excuses. He hadn't even sent Harry a vid message for their shared birthday since what happened had happened. Even when their relationship had been at its worst after the breakup with Clara, they'd managed that. But for the last few years someone he'd shared a room with, colored pictures from the opposite sides of the tablet, grown up with, hadn't been part of his life at all.

"You should be careful while you're there," said Sherlock, looking at John like something under a micro scanner. "Are you bringing a phaser?"

John wasn't entirely certain that bringing a phaser – even if only a type 1 phaser – was at all within the rules, which was why he'd replicated trousers with a hidden pocket on the small of his back. He pulled it out and waved it. "I'm surprised you couldn't deduce it was there."

Sherlock gave him an indignant sniff. "I do not have the ability to see through solid objects."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I'll be fine. It's an excellent facility and Harry was lucky to be sent there." John lifted his chin. "It'll be fine." It had to be fine. Anyway, it was a clear a signal as any from the universe when the Bakerstreet pulled the assignment to deliver supplies to Elba II that it was time he visited Tantalus. Past time.

"If you observe anything out of place, don't hesitate to contact the Bakerstreet. Even if you haven't seen your sister yet. Go back to the shuttle."

He wasn't sure why Sherlock was pushing the point. Probably trying to give John an out in case he punked out yet again. But to let him know that he heard him, John said, "I'll go back to the shuttle if anything strange happens. Donovan and Sh'Alaack will be there." From what he understood, given the level of interference from the dome, it would take more power than a com unit to contact the ship.

Sherlock kept up that adorable scanner stare of his. "See that you do." Which earned him a kiss. Which earned them a moment rutting against each other. Which rapidly escalated into earning them both a hand job – Sherlock curling into him, desperately scenting John's neck, keening John's name as John worked both of their cocks, coming into the handy cloth that was what John generally kept in that back pocket, looking down at John with that expression of surprised joy that even after all this time stole over his face when John told him he loved him – all of which left them rumpled and late.

They went to the Shuttlebay where Sh'Alaack and Donovan were waiting impatiently. Sh'Alaack had what appeared to be every tool in the universe dangling from a tool belt. She looked tense and angry.

John was still sufficiently loose from his orgasm to be fine with it.

"Really?" asked Donovan looking at the two of them. "Right. Of course that's why you're late." She stepped into the 221C. "All aboard the 221C for transport down to the resort to see murderers practice their fucking weaving."

Sh'Alaack crossed her arms.

John did not want to have a repeat of his discussion with Sh'Alaack over criminal justice. Not under the circumstances and not just then. He'd only just managed to relax.

He simply said, "Ready," gave Sherlock a kiss goodbye, and got into the shuttle.

Telling himself over and over that the universe had given him a sign it was past time to visit his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Dagger_of_the_Mind_(episode)  
> http://memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Whom_Gods_Destroy_(episode)  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hounds_of_Baskerville


	3. Sherlock POV

Sherlock had manufactured a reason that he needed to remain on the Bakerstreet.

Not because he actually intended to remain on the ship. That would defeat the entire purpose of requesting that the Bakerstreet be assigned patrol in this sector, which would inevitably lead to duty delivering supplies to Elba II.

Admittedly, part of the reason had been to support his mother-in-law's request that he encourage John to visit Harry. Sherlock reasoned there could be no better encouragement than to drop off supplies, provide the annual maintenance, and let John's own strong sense of loyalty direct his actions.

_First Father smiled in agreement. "Always allow the enemy to do your work for you."_

_Which earned a frown. "He's not my enemy." Sherlock did not like arguing with himself._

_"He'll see you as one," said Second Father if you treat him as one._

_"I'm trying to protect him." This reply earned only knowing smiles from the Portrait Gallery._

_"And avoid his snapping at you in an argument," smirked Mycroft II. A wall displayed the one time Sherlock had attempted more directly._

_"Indirect strategy is better," said First Father._

The larger reason had been raised by Elise's last visit with them when the Bakerstreet last put in – with some effort on Sherlock's part – on DS9 while she was there. She'd talked about wanting to visit Baskerville to see if there was a suitable space where the troop could put on the occasional performance as part of the prisoners' rehabilitation.

Precisely the same thing she'd said on their previous visit. Down to the phrasing. "May we never find space so vast, planets so cold, hearts and minds so plagued by the hounds of pain that theater cannot fill them with love and warmth."

While Elise – and by extension John – were wont to ascribe all manner of benefits to theater, and certainly used a greater degree of archaic words than the normal population, not only was that an odd phrasing, but it was extremely out of character that she had visited Harry three times since she'd been transferred there and had yet to make the request.

The only place where that phrase had been used historically wasn't in theatrical literature, but in the reference library for the medical database. A quote from a hundred year old medical journal article by Doctor Tristan Adams on the benefits of the neural neutralizer for rehabilitating the criminally insane.

Doctor Adams had been the medical director at Tantalus. He'd died of a heart attack on Tantalus. Frankland was the present medical director at Tantalus. There was no other correlation between Adams and Frankland.

Eventually, Harry would be released to the Baskerville penal colony, which based on Sherlock's research claimed to be a place where rehabilitated criminals were placed in a soothing agrarian setting far from the stresses of modern existence where their progress could be passively observed in a secure climate controlled location until the terms of their release were met.

In theory, it was as far as could be imagined from say the infamous Klingon prison on Rura Penthe.

In theory.

Sherlock had Tregennis beam him down to a small relay station some forty kilometers from the colony and associated asylum. He should easily be able to carry out his research before John was ready to return to the ship on the shuttle, and if there were any issues, John had a phaser and was well equipped to take care of himself.

Sherlock reminded himself of this several times.

Sherlock materialized in the relay station. A bare room with a few controls. A narrow viewing port on the colorful atmosphere outside. Its sole purpose was to, at the name implied, relay signals between Federation worlds.

On one bare wall was a message was scratched into the metal. "Tell Jame, her father will always love her, Benjamin Finney." A serial number followed and coordinates. Given the amount of dust settled into the metal, the message wasn't new. There was even some indication that someone had attempted to sand it away, but given up.

There was a faint sound. A half cough.

The relay station itself wasn't large. Three rooms. But in a chair in the break room, Sherlock found an old man glowering at the wall. He spat on the ground when he saw Sherlock. "Look at you in your Starfleet uniform. I had one those once, and where did it get me. Nowhere. Pushing records. Pushing time. I'll be damned if I repeat my same old mistakes. Damned if I will."

"Finney, I presume," said Sherlock examining the old man. His appearance betrayed little more than that he was a resident of the penal colony and had been living in the relay station for several months without bathing facilities.

"Yeah, I'm Benjamin Finney. Lieutenant. I was a lieutenant. I was the youngest instructor in Starfleet history. Me. I was." Finney closed his mouth with a raspy click of teeth.

"Why are you out here?" asked Sherlock. "That's a long journey for an elderly man such as yourself."

"A very long journey." Finney nodded. Looked up at the ceiling. "I left a circuit to the atomic matter piles open. It was such a simple mistake. Anyone could have made a mistake like that. Anyone. It wasn't my fault those crew died. Accidents happen. They happen. It's not my fault," said the Finney. Then as if the words were pried out of him, he grumbled at the floor. "What came after when I tried to cover it up wasn't an accident." Then his tone grew fierce. "Never going to do that again. Remember that."

"I meant, why are you at the relay station?" Sherlock reminded himself not to make suppositions before the evidence, but that a resident of the penal colony had been missing for some months without followup to the sole location on the planet where he could go didn't speak well for their security practices at a minimum.  

"Because I'm not letting that bastard in my head again. Last time, he tried to erase all my memories of Jame. Tried to claim they were holding me back from real recovery. Jame, best thing I ever did in my life, and he wanted to pluck her out of my mind. He can hound and hound and hound you, until you don't know what way is up. And that room of his…but if you repeat 'No' enough in your head, you can hold onto who you are." His rheumy eyed gaze wandered off to look vaguely at the floor.

"Who was trying to erase your memories?" Sherlock did so dislike it when people were imprecise using pronouns rather than actual names.

Finney cackled a laugh. "Adams. Makes no sense. No sense at all." He leaned forward with a yellow toothed smile. "I was the one who turned the power on when he was alone with his infernal machine. Saw him trying to use it on some kid fresh in Starfleet. A Crewman third class. No more than eighteen. Not one of us inmates." Finney's gaze grew fierce. "He died of a broken heart with no one to tell him what to think. Tried to break our hearts so I gave him a piece of what it felt like." He cackled grimly.

Sherlock tried several further lines of questioning but Finney shut him down with a grumpy scowl, and said, "Help an old man up." Sherlock pulled Finney to his feet. "Come on. If you're here to stop Adams, then suppose I'll have to help you. I was a lieutenant once."

Sherlock did not want his pace slowed down by a centenarian determined to defeat a dead man, but when he expressed this, Finney said, "I been there near a hundred years. There's nothing I don't know about getting in and out of that place. If you're depending on what Starfleet knows," he spat on the floor, "may as well just shoot yourself with your phaser right now."

Sherlock looked at Finney's spindly legs and cane. "Fine. I suppose I can carry you," because he was not going to be slowed down to whatever pace Finney ended up going.

Finney looked him up and down. "Twig like you?"

"I'm stronger than I look," said Sherlock with some dignity, which he immediately lost in having to carry Finney clinging to his back. Even wearing a breather, face mask, and so burdened, Sherlock made good time as he ran through the brilliant red and yellow rocks.

Highly motivated to determine what was going on. 

He reminded himself that John could take care of himself.

_Various parents warning that he had not been treating John as his husband and ally in sending him into danger unwarned._

Mummy's dry laughter mingled with Finney's commentary as he ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given Benjamin Finney is not so much a centenarian than a 120/30ian, him being alive is unlikely, but hey it's the future.   
> http://memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Court_Martial_(episode)  
> http://memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/Benjamin_Finney


	4. John POV

Soft beeps from the shuttle. The whir from the engine. The shifting sounds of the supplies being transferred down to the colony. Several chairs had been removed to make way for stacks of lashed down crates. They were full of larger items that couldn't be replicated inside the facility below, because there weren't facilities for a large scale replicator. Smaller boxes held infra-sensory drugs for the asylum that couldn't be replicated.

Under different circumstances, John might have asked Sh'Alaack what kind of modifications the engineering team had made to the shuttles to make the chairs easy to remove. Under different circumstances he might have chatted about what items had been replicated on the Bakerstreet and how many had come from Starbase 280, or explained what an infra-sensory drug even was.

Under different circumstances he might have made small talk asking about Sh'Alaack's family.

Strangely it was Donovan, never one for small talk, who opened up on a range of issues. It would seem that she'd been to Elba II before as a raw crewman, third grade, before her first post had gotten trapped in a time loop. "Crazy sort of place. Fucking sort of resort where they've got mass murderers and fucking psychos playing farmer John," here she gave John a look, "braiding each other's hair, while every move they make is watched at the top of the dome over the whole thing."

John said as calmly as he could, "A cage is a cage."

"They are free to move around the dome," said Sh'Alaack.

Which since that had been on theme for John's earlier disagreement with Sh'Alaack was... landing couldn't come soon enough.

Especially when Donovan said, "I figured after Sh'Alaack stayed on the Bakerstreet after the whole fucking Greek tragedy a few years back that the two of you had worked things out, but I don't need to be the freak to see that you've both got something fucked up between the two of you just now. If I see you're about to go at it down there, I'll stun the pair of you and came back to the ship, and fuck me if I won't."

John did not look at Sh'Alaack to see how she was taking that. He did not pull out his phaser to tell Donovan that it wouldn't be him starting anything. His post coital chill was definitely defrosted.

Finally, they reached the entry bay to the asylum and penal colony, and were transferred inside the dome of the facility. The inward curve of the dome was an egg shell blue. Green grass gently rustled on a slightly sloping hillside to what looked like some sort of quaint village from a historical vid. As he understood it, every night the dome sky dimmed into a brilliant sunset and then a simulation of the local night sky.

Doctor Frankland himself was waiting with some Humans in guard uniforms and others in blue scrubs, and an Orion female. Her pheromones were a faint echo of burnt apples, but then John was an omega. Alphas tended to react to Orion pheromones differently, which made John was just as glad wasn't added to the joy that was this adventure.

Donovan handed over a tablet to one of the guards. Donovan said to Frankland, "Doctor Frankland. Lieutenant Sh'Alaack was sent to give your facility its annual maintenance review. Waston's here," she jerked a thumb at John, "to visit the resort."

"A resort. Oh, excellent. I do like to think of it that way. Now," Frankland said looking at Sh'Alaack, "some of the machinery is quite delicate. One of a kind. Nothing like you're used to up on a starship. Oh, no. Nothing like a starship. Although, I hear the Bakerstreet is quite uniquely fitted out itself. Holo emitters all over the place. But I digress. Acheron here," he waved at a stone faced Human in blue scrubs, "can take you down to the generator level." Sh'Alaack left with Acheron while the Humans in blue scrubs unloaded the supplies for the colony.

He turned, "And this is Doctor Watson, of whom I have heard so much from your delightful Mother, and Harry, of course. Come this way."

Donovan said, "Watson, go visit your sister, I'll wait here, while they unload. I'll be heading back in about thirty minutes to pick up the second load." She gave him a significant look. What she meant was if things went poorly with Harry he could return on the first trip back to the ship.

It was going to be fine.

John stepped into the lift designed to look like a rock face until the doors opened and revealed the white interior, which looked a bit out of place on the green hillside, but the entire location was manufactured. A fact that was further emphasized as they shot down hundreds of meters.

The door opened on a room decorated in soothing blues and greens. John didn't see Harry. "Um… how does this work? Is there a special room where I talk with Harry?"

"Oh, my goodness no," said Frankland smiling jovially at John. "We're a modern facility. We allow our guests to roam freely about the rehabilitation level. We encourage them to perform simple tasks, explore their artistic side, provided they keep up with their treatments. Oh, ho, that's a key component to our success here."

He waved at the Orion woman. "Lethe here used to be an inmate and now she serves on my staff." Frankland lowered his voice. "I changed her name if you're wondering. A little conceit of mine now that she's forgotten all of her nasty old ways."

"I am very happy in my job," said Lethe softly. "It fulfills me to be the best me I can be." There was no animation to her expression. Nothing to indicate joy or happiness.

John tried not to shudder. He couldn't imagine how his mother could have spent two seconds with Frankland and Lethe, and not spent an hour chewing off John's ear during their next call.

"But you're not here to visit me, are you? Oh, no. You're here to see your dear sibling, Harry. Took me aback a moment when I first saw your picture. That I said to myself is the very picture of Harry Watson. That is just what I said."

"Yeah, we looked a lot alike when we were younger," said John.

"Oh, I'm sure you got up to so many hijinks. Twins. Switching places. Causing confusion. Harmless fun. Pity Harry couldn't be at your wedding. That was the picture I saw. Your mother was kind enough to show it to me. You in such a lovely suit and with such a handsome husband. Pity he couldn't join you. Tour our facility while you caught up with Harry."

"Yeah, well, duty and all that," said John. He looked at the door. "So, could we go find Harry?"

"Oh, I know exactly where that talented individual is. Your sibling is in our little theater. Yes, we have a theater. I encourage the guests to explore the arts, but we were blessed with Harry. Absolutely blessed." Frankland looked at John slyly. "She's putting on 'Twelfth Night', right now. We should go before someone mistakes you for Harry, or is it Sebastian." Because he must think John – growing up in the theater – had never gotten a Shakespeare joke about being a twin in his life.

He kept his tone dry. "Let's go find Viola before we're in for a comedy of errors."

"Oh, ho. I see what you did there." Frankland looked at Lethe. "Did you see what he did?"

"No, Doctor, what did he do?" said Lethe in soft voice.

"Why he made a little Shakespeare reference in response to mine, very droll. So droll. This way," Frankland headed for the door. They made their way through a series of hallways and curving ramps. There were a number of patients in pale green, blue, and purple scrubs walking in the opposite direction. "Ah, I see you've noticed our color coding system. My own idea. To indicate our guests readiness to move on to the next phase in the sylvan resort – to use your compatriot's words – above. I developed it after I perfected grandfather's design of the neural neutralizer. He worked at this facility as well. Well, worked. I mean he designed the facility and ran it. Such a tragedy that his life was cut short. In the prime of his life. So much left to do. Well, we carry on his work in a small way. But we have big dreams. Such big dreams. As you're a doctor yourself, I'll name drop a bit. Doctor Adams. Perhaps you've heard of him."

John hummed. His worry about facing Harry shifting into a resolve to ask Harry about what was going on at Tantalus and if Frankland was as off as he appeared.

"My grandfather invented the neural enhancer. Marvelously effective, but limited to where its gentle wave lengths can reach. The more powerful the wave, the greater the effect. Without the full unit, all the smaller units can do is give impressions. Not a full treatment. Still if I hadn't come here, I wouldn't have found it. Experienced how effective it is. Developed a more mobile design. Perhaps I can demonstrate it to you later."

John would rather punch himself in the face. "Would it be possible to go see Harry now?" asked John.

"But of course. Of course." 

"Right through here." Frankland motioned him through a wide set of doors. The room looked like the most abstract idea of theater set John had ever seen. No chairs for the audience. A small raised stage with seats attached to the floor facing each other. Something from a sort of two person show that was all dialog and no action.

Harry sat in one of the seats staring straight ahead.

He vaguely heard Frankland say, "I'll be just over here, shall I. Give the two of you a bit of privacy, yes. Just a bit though."

John took a step towards his twin. Gone was the long hair that she had started growing out when she'd decided to shift her gender identity to female, a year after their gender party. In its place was a short cut that looked remarkably like the one that John saw every morning in the holo mirror.

Her scent was… John blurted, "Mum didn't mention that you transitioned back to an omega." It didn't make any sense. He couldn't count the number of time that she'd argued with their parents that she was ready for the transition therapy and didn't want to wait until she was eighteen. He'd been on one of his breaks from school when he'd found out that she'd been taking black market hormone shots. Nothing that would take her the whole way through her transition, but enough to stop her the pseudo heat that started in adolescent as part of omega maturation into adulthood. That had been part of a whole other set of arguments. Given Dad had been concerned about the damage the shots might be doing to Harry's growth, while Mum wanted to talk about how hard John was taking pseudo-heat, and Harry had gone ballistic about another conversation that shifted to how John was doing.

John had tried to stay out of the whole thing.

Now confronted with Harry's scent being that of an adult omega, if felt off. Harry said very softly, "Frankland asked Mum not to mention it." She rubbed her hand along her upper thigh. "I… Doctor Frankland asked."

John opened his mouth to ask what the ever living fuck was going on, when he became overpoweringly thirsty. Perhaps it was the watery blue light from above. He looked around for a replicator, and ordered a large glass of water, gulping it down gratefully. The blue lights assumed a sort of halo glow. Everything was just a bit softer. More relaxed.

Some portion of his mind catalogued the effects of an anti-anxiety med. Probably a sub-set of the Clonadizapam family given the halo effect. He really ought to be panicking, but the infa-sensory drug, probably Dalistaline, was suppressing that response.

The waves of light from the ceiling shifted. Murmured like a sea. Like a soft voice that he could almost make out from the room's coms.

He found himself wondering why he had been so surprised that Harry had transitioned. After all, it was the orientation she'd been born with. Nothing odd with realizing that she'd made a mistake born out of her feeling of alienation at the stresses John's behavior had put on their family.

He remembered talking with her after the argument he'd just been remembering. How she'd hesitantly questioned her own decision.

Which was strange. Every other memory was Harry being absolutely certain that this was the right thing to do. Harry had never been hesitant in her life.

He put down the cup, and glanced back at where Frankland was sitting behind a pane of glass in the lighting and sound booth. "Harry, is Frankland doing anything um… well…" John wasn't even sure what he was trying to ask. He struggled to think. He came closer to her and lowered his voice, "What's going on?"

Harry sighed. "We were so close growing up."

"Yeah," John looked down at his hands. Found himself sitting in the chair opposite Harry. "Yeah, we were. Until I went away to school."

"That's not when it happened." She looked at him sharply. "It was before then. We were still kids. You stopped talking about acting together. Didn't want to go on stage at all. Started talking about going to Starfleet. Becoming a doctor. It was all you could talk about." She shook her head. "I spent three months sitting in a circle with other murderers trying to figure out when we stopped being close. Processing that even if it felt like you didn't want to be around me that wasn't what happened." She rubbed her chest. She looked thin. Like she hadn't been eating enough. There was a grainy quality to her skin that John didn't like. She waggled her fingers. "There was finger painting."

Which was when John noticed that her hands were bare. "Harry, what happened to your ring?"

"It's on your hand, John." said Harry. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead. "I'll need them back. I should never have given it to you. I should never have given away my identity like that." She looked over John's shoulder. "Doctor Frankland showed that to me."

The lights around the room glowed as if he was looking through a pane of glass covered in a petroleum based product. He felt dizzy when he turned his head. His tongue heavy with guilt. He felt so guilty taking what belonged to his sibling.

Harry held out her hand. John felt an overwhelming sensation of shame at what he'd done to Harry. Stolen all the focus from her when they were kids. Taken Harry's ring. He didn't protest when Harry pulled them off his hand. Harry slid them onto her own hand? His hand? John needed to respect Harry's gender identity choices, that was a given, but something was very wrong.

Over the loudspeaker Frankland said, "Don't you love your brother? If you loved your brother, you'd give him your wedding ring." John did love Harry, but he loved Sherlock too.

Sherlock's face beaming with joy as he put that ring on John's hand. Fading in John's memory, until John growled at the fade and yanked the memory back into focus. Never going to give that memory up. Never. Never. Never. No. No. No.

"Ah, well," said Frankland. "There are limits. Even with that little booster. But still, you've done very well on your first treatment." The blue lights rippled around him. Waves of a sea. "John, you're very tired. It's hard to move, you're so tired." John sagged into his chair. "You need to relax while the neural neutralizer calibrates, although really it's a bit more of a neural refurbisher, but never mind. Little fancies. Grandfather wanted it to be called a neural neutralizer and so it shall be."

Harry uncurled John's fingers as he removed John's wedding ring. Harry whispered, "I missed you when you went away. To school. To the academy. I didn't let them take that from me." John stared at Harry imploringly. Uncertain of how to even stop what was happening.

John forced his tongue to move. "Harry."

Harry still took John's wedding ring and put it on his own finger. A finger that had been bare since his divorce from Clara.

Frankland said, "It really is a pity that you're no longer commissioned and that your husband elected not to join you, but we can't have everything. All we can hope for is drive off the hounds of pain, and fill hearts with warmth and love. Now that John has joined us that will even be more possible. We'll be able to reach so many more hearts"

"Yes, Doctor Frankland," said Harry. There were tears rolling down his cheeks.

John tried to open his mouth to protest, but found that he couldn't.

He was drowning in the rippling lights from above. John remembered the feeling of the phaser in his hand as he killed Sholto. Tried to kill Sh'Alaack. As he killed their father. Illumined in light forever. A forever bleeding wound. He shook his head. That hadn't happened. It had, but it hadn't been him. That didn't stop him from remembering it that way.

"There used to be this idea of taking all ones sin and placing it on a sacrificial goat and sending it off into the desert," said Frankland conversationally. "I would say it's the only way Harry can do a little errand for me is if you carry some of her guilt like a good brother should. But I should be honest. It's important to be honest in therapy. I need to calibrate the device to record your memories, and verifying your sensitivity to taking on new memories is the first step. You should know those memories will help Harry help us take over your ship. Help us spread love throughout the galaxy. I've heard the descriptions of the Bakersteet from your mother. It sounds like a charming place. The critical piece will be the amplification of reflector dish, but with the holo emitters all over the ship, grandfather won't have to be a ghost in the machine any longer. What a delight that will be."

A tinge of red entered the waves of blue.

"Of course, you're right, Grandfather. I shouldn't be telling stories outside of school."

John shook as Harry squeezed his shoulder and whispered, "I'm sorry." Harry was crying as he plucked the communicator from John's chest and put it on his own.

John clenched and unclenched his hand. Feeling the phaser in his hand. It had felt hot as he'd raised it to shoot Sh'Alaack and killed their father instead. As if the heat suffusing their father was going into his own hand.

"But it will be marvelous. Spreading peace and love everywhere we go."

John was aware all the while that he had a phaser hidden in the small of his back. If he could stand to wrap his fingers around it.


	5. Bihr Sh'Alaack POV

Sh'Alaack told herself to focus on her work.

She was on Elba II to perform a function. It was critical that remote facilities like this be recertified on an annual basis. People could lie. Hide who they were, but metal could not lie. A weak joint would fail. A cracked isolinear chip would eventually blow.

She could have assigned any of her engineers to come down to Elba. A simple thirty minute calibration check. She was the head of engineering. A position she held through the trust and support of Captain Holmes. She had other tasks. Even Captain Holmes had elected not to come down to the planet.

But she'd needed to see where Harry Watson would be sent once her treatment was complete. She'd needed to feel the air around her antennae and see the facility for herself.

It wasn't Risa.

It wasn't Rura Penthe.

She reminded herself that her anger was displaced. Harry Watson was not her father. That individual would never serve a sentence on Elba II or Rura Penthe. That individual had died saving her life.

She reminded herself to focus on physics. To focus on the individual she wanted to be. Free of painful memories. To focus on the tangible.

Her devices were telling her was that the schematics were grossly out of sync with what had actually been implemented in the facility.

As a tier three secure site, every change had to go through documented change control. Architectural review on proposed designs through at least two review boards.

There were entire systems feeding into every room of not only the asylum, but the energy grid of the dome and guard rooms. Systems where, based on the logs, she was seeing a massive increase in activity in the last year and a half. If she could access the logs.

"I'm going to need to see where this system connects into the main grid." She tapped the system in question on her tablet.

Acheron blinked at her. Air howled through the pipe system over her head. Sounding almost like a distant animal's howl. Which given it wasn't logged as an air duct made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

Acheron smiled blandly. "Of course. I'll take you there."

They climbed down a ladder into an interstitial space that was not on the site designs. Ended up in a very non-standard space containing another series of distributed computer systems that were very definitely was not on the site designs. 

They appeared to come to life as she came into the space. Humming and whirring. A mild echo of the howls that echoed throughout the spaces above her. Around them, the wavering red lights rippled. "There are wave emissions that are…" her antennae twitched, "interfering with my readings."

"We do not control the lights," said Acheron. "The lights are here for our benefit. They bring us memories of peace."

"The lights are giving off wave interference."

"The lights are here to help us," said Acheron insistently.

Sh'Alaack had the sudden thought that everything was fine. Perfectly fine. Her equipment was fine. She should stop and complete her report right then. She'd already finished her review. It was all fine. She should go back to the shuttle. It was waiting for her. It was waiting to take her back to the ship. Or she could sit down. Listen to the building breath. Sit quietly and rest for a while. She was very tired. Everything was fine.

She shook her head. Nothing was fine. She was breathing the same air as someone who'd tried to kill her and she'd never see justice for her parents.

No. Correct that thought held tightly in the middle of the night while she lay in a pile with her bondmates, their soft snores and wheezes a comfort in the dark, and yet the thought remained. She'd never avenge their deaths.

The feeling of relaxation warred with gnarled years of thoughts. With the expectation that she was not good enough. Had failed in some important and final way. Warred with compressed anger.

Compression was a valid engineering technique. One of the earliest in many species, but any system under compression was prone to explosions if there were no safety valves.

With angry jerky motions, she adjusted settings on the spectrum calibrator from her tool kit. Emitted a counter wave form to negate whatever field was disrupting her readings.

Acheron fell to the floor, moaning, and clutching his head.

"What is it?" They'd had to climb multiple ladders to reach this point. "Acheron, are you injured?"

Acheron looked at her wildly. Tears streaming down his cheeks. "Why did you take the peace away?"


	6. Sally Donovan's POV

On the third load, Sally figured it was time she had a word or two with the warden.

She'd seen how things were run on site previously.

It might have been over ninety years ago, but the place had made an impression on her. There was the creepy as fuck panopticon design, which made security this passive watch from above shite. She'd actually heard the first warden, Simon Van Gelder, describe how they had cameras practically everywhere and controlled the population without ever going down below. They controlled the very air everyone breathed.

After that fun demonstration, Doctor Adams, the director at the time, had triggered every, "Get the fuck away from this arse," alarm she had. Which given she'd been a third level crew at the time, and got to carry the boxes into his shiny happy asylum, had been just fucking great.

The lieutenant in charge of the supply run, Doctor Helen Noel, hadn't seemed to notice though and had been all for seeing a demonstration of Adam's neural fuck-with-brains device. Seemed kind of obvious that not long after Sally'd sat down, she was suddenly remembering fucking slow dancing with Noel at the medical staff's Winter party. Going back to her room for a slow grind.

Sally did not dance. She did not go to fucking happy festivals from a planet where she hadn't lived on since she was a kid. She certainly didn't fuck shiny as fuck head doctors.

If that inmate hadn't flipped out, Sally would have come close to decking a superior officer. As it was, she'd had a long talk with Noel about medical fucking ethics afterwards that resulted in that head doctor getting the fuck off the ship.

That long ago trip was the reason she'd piloted the supplies herself rather than having Cho or Washington do it. Last thing either of her security team needed was a mind fuck.

Course, that was why she'd waited until the third trip to ask to see the warden. In case she was letting old memories to get away from her.

There was no reason for creepy fucking guards to be on the landing pad in the colony. No reason. They were supposed to be up in the guard area at the top of the dome. They certainly weren't supposed to be turning their backs on the smiling colonists. At any point, one of the cons could have grabbed a weapon.

It was all very well and good to force anyone coming in and out to go through the docking bay and keep transporter traffic to a minimum, but blocking com messages was completely outside of regulations.

"Of course. I can take you to see Warden Barrymore," said Mr. Styx, who had what Sally considered to be too wide and white a smile for someone working security.

Sally put a command lock on the shuttle tied to her personal code.

There were at least a dozen manual controls that should have been in place before she was allowed to go up to the guard's control area, but they went straight up as if riding a normal fucking lift.

Fucking distant howl from the air vents were getting the fuck on her last fucking nerve too.

Warden Barrymore greeted her in the control room. "Welcome to the top of the world, Lieutenant Commander? Isn't it a beautiful day?" Barrymore chuckled, "Every day is a beautiful day here at Baskerville."

Sally did not ask, "What the ever living fuck are you on?" He didn't have the mildly strung out look of a man who'd taken to drugs to deal with a boring arse post overseeing criminals. She said, "Care to give me the tour?" At a minimum, if she'd get more intel, which she could put in a report and someone outside of her grade could deal with it. Eventually, given Starfleet bureaucracy.  

"Of course," said Barrymore. "There's not much to the site. We oversee the perimeter and access into and out of the facility."

She looked down at a monitor and spotted her captain crossing a fallow field followed by a positively ancient old man. An old man that she had actually met and remembered given he'd been the one who'd sprung her out of Adam's chamber of horrors.

None of the guards reacted to seeing someone who didn't belong on the monitor or even seemed to care about what was going on in any of them.

"Doing a bang up job," she said. Who the fuck knew what Holmes was up to. Probably something to do with Watson, something completely insane, or he'd sniffed the same thing she had. Probably all three.

That for a place that had been pretty off before, it was now upside down cake.

"Every day is a beautiful day here at Baskerville," said Barrymore.

"Where are your monitors on the outside of the dome?"

"Why would we need to monitor outside the dome?" asked Barrymore. "There's nothing outside the dome except a relay station. There's nowhere to go."

"You're supposed to monitor both sides of the perimeter at all times." She angrily slapped the control that she damn well knew should show her the external monitors. Most of it was dull as fuck. But the north east quadrant was littered with bodies. None of whom were wearing breathers or face masks.

She pulled her phaser as she slapped her com. "Sh'Alaack. Watson. Back to the shuttle." She only got static.

Barrymore smiled. "Not everyone is suitable for the beautiful day. Mistakes were made. They have been adjusted. It's always a beautiful day at Baskerville."

A delicious scent filled the room. Apples baked in a pie by her mum. Cinnamon and cloves. Heavy spices. A female voice said, "Just the way I designed it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, it's not a true panopticon, because the prisoners can see each other in the colony.   
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panopticism


	7. Sherlock POV

Finney had not left the facility through the airlock. "No way to remove the sensors that tell Adams if you go in or out. I planted the bushes next to each of the grates. Picked something nice and thick. Took ten years to get them big enough and to make my own breather and face mask."

Sherlock had listened to Finney ramble the entire trip through the sewage ducts. Not the most pleasant journey, but it had illuminated the final reason Finney had hobbled the long trek to the relay station. Some ninety years after Finney had murdered the Adams using the full force of his own neural inhibitor, the attacks had begun.

Begun being a loose term. "Always were the howls in the ducts, but nothing a soul shouldn't hear when they kill a man."

That changed with the sudden drop in the oxygen levels when Finney had been taking his daily stroll around the perimeter, which might have killed the old man if he hadn't taught drills at the academy for what to do during sudden losses in cabin pressure. What to do in case of oxygen deprivation.

There had been the poison in the food from the replicator unit. Again, long past training had informed Finney what to do if he'd ingested an unknown element in his food.

It escalated to threats of violence from another prisoner angry about past events that had never happened. "First time I met the woman. Orion twig of a girl fresh out of the asylum. Figured it would be best if I bugged out."

All these events began with Frankland's tenure as director at the facility.

Sherlock pushed aside the grate and jumped down through the fragrant brush. Finney grunted and lowered himself down more slowly. Finney muttered, "You'll miss your hips when they're gone. When you can't be leaping about like a tick."

As they moved out of the concealing brush, Sherlock looked around a bare fallow field. All the fields were fallow. Based on the level of wilding growths, they hadn't been tilled. Had sat empty for over a year. There were none of the activities that should have been occurring in the middle of the day.

"Well, twig, we don't have all day. Help me up. There's something I need from my quarters."

Sherlock suffered being once more turned into a beast of burden and muttered commentary on the smoothness of his running. They arrived in the small village that was under the center of the Baskerville dome. The houses were entirely silent. Finney directed him to his quarters. Sliding down from Sherlock's back to prop a solid looking chair against the front door before hobbling up to a second floor bedroom where he picked up an enigmatic looking device.

Sherlock reached out to examine it and got a slap from Finney. "Hands off, Twig. It's something to keep Adam's out of our heads while you get your look around. Not much range, but it'll do." At Sherlock's surprised look, Finney grumbled, "I was the youngest instructor in Academy history. Once. I was the youngest."

There was a rattle at the door below. Sherlock looked out the window overlooking the main square. Parked in the center was the shuttle, which was certainly not where it had been when it landed.

Rows of prisoners and guards flowed around the shuttle. By Sherlock's calculations, all of the residents of penal colony and the asylum.

John was not among them.

They were silently moving in the direction of Finney's quarters.

Sherlock whispered, "How do we get into the asylum?"

"Now Twig's glad he brought me," said Finney. "Now Toothpick's thinking to himself he's glad he brought the old man."

Unfortunately, during this small speech Sherlock could see the closer individuals silently picking up a heavy bench as if one intelligence – Adam's if what Sherlock suspected was true – was directing them. Without a word or shout, they broke into a run in their direction.

There was a crash of the door below.

"Where?" yelled Sherlock as he picked up Finney and jumped out the window onto the next roof. He ran at first wildly away, and then in the direction Finney told him.

Duct work. Locked, but Sherlock made short work of the lock with his phaser.

It led them straight down into the bowels of the facility. A dark and dry space that was most certainly not an entry into the asylum.

"How do I get into the asylum? Why did you lead me here?"

Finney vaguely patted a wall. "Never could have made it here without your help, Twig. Been some sixty years since I could make a climb like that."

Finney sat down on a pipe. "Going to do what I should have done near a hundred years ago. Should have known that killing Adams wasn't enough. Not with his own damn machine. Not when it can pluck memories as well as place them. But back then, Jame was alive. Sending me messages. Visiting me for Christmas and my birthday."

Sherlock asked, "How do I actually get to the asylum? My husband is trapped up there?"

Finney placed the device on the floor. "You got kids?"

"No," said Sherlock, who was feeling more than a bit agitated.

"You should. Only thing good I did in my life was Jame." He patted the device with the side of a foot. "And I suppose this."

"Tell me how to get to John or I'll take that thing away." Sherlock reached down.

Before he could pick it up, Finney said, "Now don't get tetchy, Twig. I already armed it. Did it when you looked out the window. Go up two levels and through the hatch with the blue markings. You've got thirty minutes before all power in the place goes." He grinned. "Before everything goes."

Sherlock jumped into the climb. He could hear Finney laughing all the way up to the second level and even after he burst through the hand operated latch into the cool blue corridor and came face to face with the mural of a massive hound.

He was immediately overwhelmed with an almost overpowering thirst.

Almost overpowering. He ignored the replicators despite sensations of hunger and thirst as he searched rooms for John.

He said conversationally, "I never eat when I'm on a mission. Also," the first three rooms were empty, but the corridor on the left was redolent with John's scent, "I was a disembodied city once. Therefore I am not unsympathetic, but not sufficiently to allow you to stop me from finding John."

He didn't mention Finney. If Adams couldn't deduce what Finney would do, that was his own problem.


	8. Bihr Sh'Alaack POV

Acheron repeated his question over and over. "Why did you take the peace away?" Becoming more and more agitated.

She backed away just as he lunged at her.

She still had her spectrum calibrator in her hand. A cylindrical device that she jabbed up into his throat. Not hard enough to do damage to him or the device, but enough to make him take a step back. Unfortunately, not enough to make him stop. His hands closed around her neck, cutting off her air. "You took peace away!"

She hit him again. Fumbling to get the welding laser on her belt free.

Choking.

Gasping for air, as he slammed her back against the wall in the tight space.

It came free. She flipped it on and jabbed again. There was a sizzle of burned flesh. Acheron fell to the ground dead.

Bihr stared down at him for a long moment.

She'd never killed anyone before.

There wasn't time to think about it. Watson and Donovan were exposed to whatever it was that was going on here. From where she was, she was closer to the asylum than the landing pad. She strapped the spectrum calibrator back into its holster, but left it on. It didn't have much of a range, but it would enough to keep herself and anyone within a few meters of her safe.

The climb back up the ladder felt infinite. The hatch that she'd come through was locked. If Bihr hadn't had her full tool belt that might have been an issue. Might. She rebooted the door into safe mode, which caused the electronic lock to open.

She couldn't get enough of a signal to communicate with Watson, but she could locate his position. She ran by empty rooms until she came to a wide open room.

Two identical people were sitting on chairs in the center of the room. They both drew in a breath as she entered and stood up.

The Watson wearing Watson's rings yelled, "Sh'Alaack, it's me. I'm John Watson."

"No," shouted ringless Watson. "I'm John Watson. That's my…" he sighed and stepped in front of the other John, "twin. Don't hurt him. This isn't Harry's fault."

Ringed Watson pushed ringless Watson aside. "Don't listen to him. That's Harry."

Bihr thought quickly. "What are my children's names?"

"Thil and Shor," said ringed Watson.

"Shrilaas and Keraas," said ringless Watson.

She cursed herself for asking a question that was a matter for the public record. She should be able to tell them apart. She knew John Watson. Had spent countless hours with him over the years. Harry's face was shocked into her memory as she raised a phaser to kill Bihr. "What is our worst piece in the Bad Band?"

"The Ballad of Shoeless Klathak," said both Watsons.

Over the loudspeaker someone laughed. Frankland came into the room. "Twins. Confusion. How simply wonderful."

Bihr wavered with her welder in her hand, unsure of what to do with it. She'd had basic training years ago, but she had no skills with a knife. The welder wasn't meant to be a distance weapon, or a weapon at all. It was a tool.

The smell of Acheron's burning flesh was still rank in her antennae. She came closer to the two Watsons. Attempting to discern any difference between them that would identify, which one was the correct one.

In a smooth motion, ringed Watson palmed a phaser from somewhere, and even as she was preparing to rush him, he shot Frankland.

From the way Frankland crumpled, Bihr knew he was dead. 

Bihr lowered her welder. "You must be Doctor Watson. Step away from your sister."

"No, I'm John Watson," said the other Watson, but she no longer believed her. She felt a certain lightness. Relief at being able to sort out who was the killer and who was her friend.

Holmes burst into the room. "Don't be an idiot. Harry is right handed. John is left handed. Harry is the one holding the phaser." He glared. "We have fifteen minutes before – if my deductions about a bitter old man are right – a fairly massive explosion goes off."

Bihr protested, "This place is a maze. We can't trust anything we think we know about how this place is designed."

"I can get us out of here," said Harry stripping off the rings and tossing them to John, who caught them left handed. "Come on."


	9. John POV

John didn't even know what to think as Sherlock rapid fire brought everyone up to speed and Harry led them just as quickly up a twisting route to a turbo lift.

That she'd spotted his phaser, which until she'd grabbed it, he'd forgotten that she'd been fond of mocking him for storing lip gloss and a civilian communicator in a similar pocket during their pre-teen years.

That after everything Frankland had done to her, she'd shot Frankland. That Frankland himself might have been under the control of this Adams person.

A large warm hand wrapped around his own. He smiled at Sherlock, remembered that he was angry with him for utterly failing to warn him about whatever it was that had had him following John to the planet, remembered the squeeze of his heart when Sherlock had appeared through the door and known him in an instant. No twin confusion. Knew him immediately. He squeezed that hand and brought it up to his lips for a quick kiss, followed by an eyebrow arch to let Sherlock know that if they got through this he was going to have to take his punishment for his infraction and like it.

The answering warmth in Sherlock's expression let John know that Sherlock would be more than happy to do so.

The lift doors opened as they approached, but Sherlock held back. "Adams controls everything in the facility. Why is he letting us escape?"

"No time," said John, letting go of Sherlock's hand to push Sherlock into the lift. The lift shot to the surface and opened just as a massive rumble shook the ground below them and the dome above. Smoke billowed out of every seam of the lift, choking them as they tumbled forward.

The projected blue sky went black. Emergency lighting came on around the ring of the dome. Faint and dim. John wondered if the facility managers had kept the breather masks charged in between getting brain washed by… the incorporeal intelligence of a hundred year old psychiatrist. Sh'Alaack switched on a device that cast a pale yellow circle of illumination around them. 

High above, John could hear a chilling sound. Somewhere a panel had been lost on the air handling units. The pressurized air inside the dome was escaping through that panel.

"This way," said Sherlock. "The shuttlepod was moved to the center of Baskerville. When last I saw it, the shuttlepod was surrounded by the majority of the inhabitants."

Sh'Alaack said, "I was able to block whatever wave form Adams was using earlier. But when I did, my guide at the facility became... very agitated. We may need to fight our way through anyone near the shuttle."

"Great," said John, opening and closing his hand. He wanted to ask Harry for the phaser, but couldn't. He could still feel the shock of shooting his father. The raw emotion of the moment.

Harry's left hand reached out for his right and squeezed it. She said, "Remember which hand the phaser was in. Focus on that." She pressed the phaser into his left hand. "I may have had more fencing practice than you, but you've had more practice with this."

He glanced at Sh'Alaack, but she holding up the light. Her antennae tilting in opposite directions.

His fingers clenched around the phaser. Feeling its smooth weight. He nodded and met Sherlock's eyes. "Lay on Macduff."

"Lay off, Macduff," said Harry, and for a moment, just the briefest moment, he remembered what it had been like when they were just kids then he heard Sh'Alaack shifting next to him, and remembered.

Sherlock remained in front. "I have the best night vision. Try not to blind me, Sh'Alaack."

As they grew closer to the center, John could make out the faint outlines of buildings against the emergency lights, there was the sound of shouting and a phaser blast.

Sherlock took off at a run. John almost sprinted after him, but Sherlock could take care of himself. He reminded himself that he had ample evidence of that over the years.

He took hold of Harry's hand. A familiar counter weight in his own.

Someone screamed and charged out of the darkness. John shifted in front of Harry and brought them down with a single shot. Picking off assailants in the dark wasn't the most efficient method of clearing their route. But he didn't want to risk shooting Sherlock or Donovan in the dark. Even Sherlock couldn't shake off a stun.

"I've got the captain's com signal," said Sh'Alaack. She guided them between several buildings. The quaint rural charm rendered chilling in the darkness and the trail of unconscious figures groaning against walls. Not that everyone was unconscious.

They were attacked three more times – saved mostly because the figures screamed as they came at them – before they made it to the central square. In the middle, running lights on, was the shuttlepod surrounded by a churning mass of shouting figures. Fighting each other. Buildings. Shaking the shuttle.

"Where's Sherlock!" said John trying to be heard over the noise.

"Stage right front!" said Harry.

Sh'Alaack said, "Your 2 o'clock!"

John reset the phaser to broad beam. Stunning dozens of figures. At which point his genius husband remembered that he had a phaser too. A wide white grin like a new moon spread over Sherlock's face as they caught the crowd in the cross fire between them.

Harry whispered, "Ashes, ashes. They all fall down," as grey figures crumpled to the ground in the dim light. High above them, air continued to howl out of the dome.

John looked at her concerned.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Fuck you! It worked." He shook his head and they picked their way through the fallen figures. The shuttlepod opened its door. Wide and welcoming.

John stopped when confronted by Lethe sitting in the co-pilot's chair. In one hand, she held a small phaser pointed at the door. In the other, she held a silver device with a bell-shaped disk at the end, which she had pointed at Donovan seated in the pilot's chair. Its tip pulsed with blue light that bathed the side of Donovan's face and braided hair. Lethe said, "It's important to always have a backup plan. Or a backup body. I had hoped to bring an army of previously conditioned souls up to the Bakerstreet, but we can't always have what we want. Isn't that right, Crewman Donovan?"

Donovan sitting in the pilot's chair ground her fingers into the side of her skull. "No, we can't."

Lethe's pheromones roiled out of the shuttlepod. Thick and oily in the air. Slightly burnt like caramelized apples left too long in the oven. But then again, John wasn't the target of her scent. Behind him, Sherlock shuddered and shifted to move close to John. Breathing deeply against his neck. While Sh'Alaack recoiled three steps back.

Lethe said, "Although, really, it was my good fortune that the Bakerstreet chose to send down someone who'd been previously been conditioned by the neural neutralizer. The more exposure, the quicker the subject is to take suggestions. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to progress this far with her in so short a time. But enough chit chat. Harry, I'm your sister. You remember that right. All the fun we had growing up. All the peaceful memories. Join me. We have important work to do out there bringing warmth and light into people's lives."

Harry took one step forward. Just one.

John said, "Harry! She'd not your sister. Those memories are a construct. Something Adams put in your head."

Harry turned to look at him and smiled sadly. "I have to go to her. She is my sister. The one who always stood by me. She stood by me when everything came out about dad. She visits me all the time."

John swayed forward and got a little shake of the head from Lethe. "Uh, uh. I'm afraid I can't afford to take the time to fill you with happiness and peace."

Harry walked the full way into the shuttlepod. Placed her hand on Lethe's shoulder.

Lethe got as far as, "Wonderful, now we can..." when Harry smashed her head against the sidewall. The silver device and the phaser dropped to the floor.

Harry said, "Don't fuck with my childhood!" She slammed Lethe's head against the wall again. "Memories. Gender. Orientation. Just,"

John stunned Lethe. "You can stop, Harry. She's down."

Donovan sat there shaking. "What happened? How did I get down here?"

Sherlock strode past her and tapped a control. "221B to Bakerstreet. We're going to need you to prepare to beam out all the prisoners. All life support systems have gone down in Baskerville. Air is escaping into the atmosphere. I estimate it will take about two hours for the air to equalize. We're going to need to transport more than six hundred penal colony residents and guards to the Bakerstreet." He looked back into the darkness. "They may be very agitated."

Hudson said cheerfully, "Of course, dear. I suspected something like that would happen and have been preparing. But just this once. I'm your XO. Not a warden."

John kissed his husband quick and hard. "I am going to be very angry with you later."

"I look forward to it," said Sherlock, grinning. Breathless.

Behind them Harry groaned and Donovan after a long moment, said, "Right back at you, sister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter in this particular episode to go.


	10. Harry POV

The shuttle ride up to the ship was quiet. Harry watched Sh'Alaack's back. Glanced at John's face. Fingered the shortened ends of her own hair and tried not to feel like a teenager hauled home from a late night party by her angry parents.

While John had been away, there had been a few of those. While she tried to figure out who she was. Not that he knew about them. He'd been away.

Not that it was his fault. Therapy – before the asylum had been taken over by Adams – had been good for acknowledging that.

She looked at John, checking Lethe's vitals like the good doctor he was. He'd lost the uniform sometime in the last few years. His commission. She'd heard about that from Mum. Gained a starship captain as a husband, who was currently staring at John like he was his last best hope for peace.

Clara had looked at her like that once. So much ashes.

As they emerged from the shuttlepod onto the Bakerstreet, four tiny figures flung themselves at Sh'Alaack. Clinging limpet like to her legs. "Mama Bihr!" The two younger children were sobbing. One of the older ones was wiping tears from his little blue cheeks. Bright white hair sticking up in all directions.

He glared at Harry. "You tried to hurt Mama Bihr. I'm going to challenge you when I'm older."

"Me too," said his twin, fiercely.

Sh'Alaack said, "Shor. Thil. Don't say that kind of thing."

Shor and Thil. Shrilaas and Keraas. Names that had been put in her head so she could become John. Take over the Bakerstreet for Frankland. Lethe. Adams. Names and no faces.

Identical faces glaring at her. A space in her chest ached. That had been her and John once.

Once.

Had been.

The memories that Adams had put in her head were still there. Lethe was still in there.

But deeper and wider was the memory of seeing some kid punch her brother and jumping on that kid's back. Splitting lips and knuckles, side by side.

Harry crouched down to be at eye level with them. "Do you know what an evil fairy godmother is?"

They shook their heads at her. Clearly a failure in their education.

"Do you know how to fight? Shoot a phaser? Survive in the wilderness?" Not that she knew, but she had read Robinson Caruso. "Get revenge on an arch enemy? Fence with a sword?" That last one she did know how to do, or at least the kind that looked good on stage.

They shook their heads, eyes growing wider. She could see Sh'Alaack listening to Harry. Harry kept going. "Well, I'm your evil fairy godmother. I was supposed to give you gifts when you were born so you'd know how to get your revenge me when the time was right, but it's not too late. I'm going to start giving you gifts now. So you'll be ready."

"Wow," said the first twin who'd spoken. Shor or Thil. Twin confusion.

"That's right, and then if you still want to face me when your adults, I'll accept your challenge, but you're going to have to train every day to be ready, and I won't make it easy for you. It'll be a lot of work."

"Oh," said the one on the right. "That sounds fair."

She held out her hand, and glancing up at their mother, both children shook on it with her.

By which time, Sh'Alaack's bondmates with glares for her arrived to sweep Sh'Alaack and the children away.

A woman she'd tried to kill once upon a time. It had been so important. So critical. Vital to saving her father. Who'd shown her in the most definite way that wasn't what he would have wanted.

What did Harry want?

For all the psychopathy of the facility and the fake memories, Harry had made some progress at Tantalus. Although, she hoped the next place wasn't going to be called Sisyphus. John wasn't the only one who knew how to break out of things and she had promises to keep. That was something to cling to.

She turned herself in to Donovan and ended up sharing a beer with her in John's old quarters. They talked about mind control and what an idiot John was, but his heart was in the right place, and feeling out of place. Their experiences at the asylum. The violation of memories that weren't their own. The need to feel something real. Things took an unexpected turn for a bit. Unexpected and too long. Far too long. They were strangers reaching for pleasure. A kiss that turned to kisses. A touch that turned to touching in the long dark night.

Donovan didn't stay after. "I don't trust you not to fucking stab me while I sleep."

That was fair.

She was locked in with her own thoughts for the night. Which was better than most of her former associates were faring in the holding area in the cargo bay and brig.

In the morning, she had John begin the process to reverse her re-alignment. She felt uncomfortable with an omega's scent. Without the fleshy ridge where her knot should be.

John wasn't sure how to reverse the memories. How to remove what the neural inhibitor had done.

She suffered through listening to John talk about helping Lethe and the others. She wanted him to only focus on her and her pain. But that ship had left space port long ago.

She suffered through watching John coo over Sherlock through dinner. The sharp scent in the air, the way they kept touching hands, and bumping knees making it obvious they'd had sex just before she'd arrived for dinner.

She suffered through the slight widening of her brother-in-law's eyes as he took one look at her and said, "With Donovan. But why?"

"Because she's attractive," said Harry, "I could say that that's more than I can say for John, but," she waved at herself, feeling good to finally have her silver ring back, "obviously, we're stunning."

Which did the trick of turning Sherlock's laser focus back on John. She had no idea how John stood it.

She asked him the next day. He glowed happily and said, "I love him," and then sang his husband's praises until she said, innocently as a thespian could, "So, you're not dumping him for your old shag. What's his name, Tadpole."

John groaned. "Ugh don't remind me. He kept pinging me a few years ago." They talked about people they knew. They got to know each other a bit.

Though, when their Mum met up with the Bakerstreet on Starbase 543, she may have made like a limpet to her mum's side.

Her mum said, "Oh, honey. You've come back to me."

Harry let Mum mother her before the authorities came to take her away. Not before arranging for a children's version of the Count of Monte Cristo to be beamed to Sh'Alaack's children on the Bakerstreet.

She had promises to keep. Consequences to deal with. New memories to build.


End file.
